Ahiru almost dropped the basket of groceries.
Chairs toppled over. The couch cushions stacked up into a tower in the corner. The tablecloth tied around her son's shoulders like a cape. And her husband, wielding a wooden spoon.
He smirked down at the boy, triumphant and posed with the dramatics he used to possess as a brooding, teenage knight. "Surrender, boy," he jeered playfully, "for your castle has fallen to my might."
"Never!" cried her son, the child's green eyes flashing with determination and mirth. The boy gripped a broom in his hands and held the bristles in his father's direction. "Do your worst, foul village!"
"—villain," Fakir corrected under his breath.
"—oh, right. Ahem! Do your worst, foul villain!"
Ahiru clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. And at her delighted squeak, her two favorite people whirled around to face her with matching, reddened faces, both dropping their "weapons" and freezing where they were.
Then, Fakir cleared his throat and stalked forward, suddenly grabbing her around her waist and heaving her right over his shoulder. "Kyah! Fakir!" she laughed, her cheeks flushed from laughter. The groceries dropped, forgotten, to the ground.
"Come and rescue your princess," the villain challenged the young hero with a smirk, "if youdare."
"I'll save you, dear tassel!"
"—damsel."
"—oh, right."